Earthbound

I don’t know if I’m more afraid of what might be waiting for us … or that nothing will be. No house, no answers, not even any clues. If I don’t find some answers here, I’m not sure we’ll have the resources to survive until tomorrow. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

In a few minutes we’re turning down a street just outside Camden, and I feel my chest finally start to relax as the buildings grow sparse. Fewer places for an assassin to hide. I’d like just one day to go by without someone trying to kill me. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.

We’re on crumbly county roads now and there’s forest on both sides. “There should be a turn coming up soon,” I say, leaning forward and searching for it.

Benson points to a faint dirt road that speaks of decades of neglect, and the car bumps off the pavement. He grins. “Glad you’re not a serial killer,” he says, leaning to nudge his shoulder against mine. “Because this would be an awesome place to ditch a body.”

Thank you for that visual, I think, knowing the comment was supposed to lighten the mood. Somehow, it only made everything feel more serious. More dangerous. “At least we haven’t seen anyone following us,” I manage in response. I can feel the house approaching us instead of the other way around. “It’s coming up,” I say, peering into the trees. I catch sight of a barely there path that isn’t nearly wide enough for even a compact car and point it out.

“Time to hoof it?” Benson asks, and I nod, though no words come out. My throat is frozen.

In a complete turnaround from last night, the sun is out in full force today, melting all the snow it dumped on us two nights ago. I’d like to take it as a good omen, but really, it’s yet another sign of how screwed up the world is.

The path is muddy and slick with wet grass, and baby leaves drip water droplets onto our heads when we disturb them. But we don’t have far to go; the path ends at what I know used to be a white-picket fence. There’s nothing left of it, though.

It, or the house.

Disappointment surges through me. It was foolish to think Quinn’s house would still be here, looking just like the painting. I pick my way across years of fallen leaves, reminding myself that two centuries is a long time. My eyes follow the path to the house that’s invisible except in the memory that feels as much mine as Quinn’s.

I step closer to where the house used to be.

It’s almost nothing now—a broken outline of what might have once been a foundation, covered in green moss. There’s a pile of old stones that hints at a fireplace on the north side, but it could just as easily be a heap of rocks some kids made twenty years ago. My toes find the edge of a stone barrier that’s more or less straight and I follow it carefully, hoping that it’ll give me some insight into the structure that existed here so long ago. It’s only when it turns a third corner that I’m sure this was, in fact, the foundation.

“Wow,” Benson whispers when I reach him again, coming to the same conclusion. “This is really it.”

It is.

I can feel it.

It’s the familiarity I expected to feel in Camden. And now I understand—it’s not the city, it’s here. This place. This is where Quinn meant for me to come.

As though hearing his name in my thoughts, Quinn’s presence resonates within me, filling my soul with a silent music like the vibrations of an enormous bell. My backpack slides from my shoulders as I stand before what would have been the front of the house. It wasn’t large—not that homes in that era ever were. But big enough for one.

Two, my mind whispers, and I nearly hiss aloud in jealousy as I push the thought away. Why am I jealous? I don’t want Quinn! He’s not even real!

And Benson is here. Benson, who took a beating for me. Who kept me warm last night.

I force my eyes back to the hint of ruins and imagine what the house looked like from the brief glance I got of the painting at Quinn’s secret hideaway. Yellow, with smooth wooden slates. Two windows on either side of the door.

And curtains. The thought comes unbidden. Red gingham curtains.

The picture that flashes in my head is so vivid that I step back and look up.

At a house.

A real house.

Not exactly real, I remind myself, even as I gasp at the vision that has appeared in front of me. It’s like Quinn—it looks real, but it can’t be.

I’m standing on what would have been the front porch. It spans the entire length of the house and thin white pillars support the roof. Glistening wind chimes sway in a gentle breeze.

Wind chimes.

Just like the ones on the porch at Reese and Jay’s.

I hung them across the front veranda myself. Found them a couple months ago at a flea market downtown. Reese laughed and told me I could hang a dozen if I wanted to.

So I did.

Quinn’s house has wind chimes too.

Now I’m seeing connections where there really aren’t any, I berate myself. Tons of people collect wind chimes.

Of course, I’m seeing a lot of things lately, so perhaps that’s not the best argument.

But when I look to the front door, I can’t hold back a gasp.

A triangle glows gold above the door so brightly it’s hard to look at. Boldly proclaimed for anyone to see, it might as well be spelled out: this is an Earthbound home.

The door beckons me, tempts me, and though a rational part of my mind knows it’s not real, I can’t resist. I walk forward and reach out my hand.

It melts right through the doorknob. Of course I can’t touch it. But …

I set my jaw and walk forward. A tingling sensation crackles over my skin as I walk through the opaque door and find myself inside the house. With my mouth agape, I look around the room, catching sight of the cheery, wood-burning stove in the corner and the soft gray stone mantelpiece over the fireplace.

I allow my eyes to drift to the other corner and startle when I see a woman standing there. Her back is to me and I sense she’s humming, though I don’t hear anything. It seems like all my senses have been muffled except sight.

She’s pulling a quilt over a delicately carved four-poster bed. Once it’s in place, she tosses a pillow into the air, fluffing it in her hands before plopping it down at the head of the bed.

I can’t see her face, but I recognize the thick brown braid from the painting. Rebecca. They must have lived here together.

Again that misplaced, irrational envy washes over me and I gasp. As if hearing me, Rebecca turns.

I stagger backward when I see her face.

She’s me.

Or someone who looks just like me.

That doesn’t make any sense. Not unless my crazy brain is projecting myself into the scene … ?

Her eyes stare into space—her thoughts clearly wandering—and her hands reach up to touch something at her throat.

I see a necklace, and a jolt of possessiveness burns through me. I want to reach out and snatch the shining silver from her fingers. I push my knuckles against my teeth and force myself to remain where I am.

Still silent, Rebecca turns toward the door and her soft brown eyes light up.

I tremble, forcing myself not to turn to the front of the house to see who has walked in.

I know who it is.

Quinn.

A hat flies by me, landing on the bed, and my arm explodes into tingles as I feel him pass, brushing through me. Then he’s in my sight line and my legs shake, then crumple beneath me as every feeling I’ve tried to deny for